


Fools Rush In

by Lisafer



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M, Romance, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:42:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisafer/pseuds/Lisafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Cythera took so long to end up with Gary because there was another option on the table?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fools Rush In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seori/gifts).



> Happy birthday to Rosie, who has served as my muse for a very long time. This was a product of our musings, and I'm always grateful to have you in my head. :)

I.

Shared, longing gazes across the ballroom were never appropriate. That was one of the many rules of etiquette that my mother and governess stressed when I was a young girl, growing up in Elden. Somewhere between balancing the finances of a castle and learning to knit booties for babies, I was told what was appropriate between men and women in public, as well as in private. The rules were simple – if it wasn’t something I would do in the temple of the goddess, I shouldn’t do it in a ballroom.

This never made sense to me, as I would not dance in the temple of the goddess. But when I brought that up with my governess, I received a stern glare and lecture.

As I grew older and witnessed my first balls at the palace, I could begin to understand their lessons in courtly love. Yes, it was romantic to steal away with a knight and exchange pleasantries – verbal or non-verbal – in the rose garden. So I’d heard. It was flattering to see a longing gaze from a purple-eyed squire, even if I later learned it was envy rather than desire.

But the interaction that was powerful enough to stop me in my tracks was the brief – perhaps curious? – glance from a man who looked as though the nonsense of courting were beneath him. He simply nodded once, raised his goblet in acknowledgment, and took a long drink of his wine. He did not keep a smoldering gaze upon me as he drank; he did not gulp down his drink, as if indicating that the mere sight of me made him parched. No – it was a simple gaze, and something about it made my entire body tingle.

“Who is that man?” I asked Gwynnen and Vivenne, when I found them at the edges of the ballroom.

“Sir Wyldon, future lord of Cavall,” Vivenne answered. “Handsome enough, but as cold as winter frost.”

That explained the lack of smoldering, at least.

“His family breeds the best horses in the land,” she added wistfully. Everyone knew that Vivenne loved horses more than she cared for people; I suspected she thought it a shame he weren’t a more amiable man. Or perhaps she was wistful that he had not made eyes at her, instead.

“He’s rumored to be looking to take a wife,” Gwynnen replied. “And has a vast fortune.”

I frowned. “Any woman who would marry for a fortune is—”

“Practical?” Vivenne finished, raising her eyebrows. It was well known that her fief was in debt, and a promising marriage was their best hope.

“It should be reserved for those who would best benefit from them, if there is no affection,” I replied, squeezing Vivenne’s hand. It was not fair that I was offered every luxury in the world, yet she was from a Book of Gold family and wore the same slippers from last Season.

My eyes wandered back over to where Sir Wyldon was leaning against a pillar, listening to a blustering fool of a man talk to him. I didn’t much care for the stuffy earl of Carmine Tower; he was rude and obnoxious, and had spoken so harshly of Sir Alanna that I found him impossible to bear. Sir Wyldon didn’t seem particularly interested in him, which made me like him all the more.

II.

Court had become loudly divided in the months since Alan of Trebond revealed herself to be Alanna. While she had run off to the desert, we were left behind to look for explanations and to ask more questions. She’d been a friend of sorts, after all. And all of us who knew her as a squire were expected to answer them. But only Prince Jonathan and his smart cousin seemed to know anything.

“I’d stay away from him,” Gwynnen whispered conspiratorially to me at another small party, when she caught me eying Sir Wyldon. “They say he’s quite loud about wanting the king to revoke Sir Alanna’s shield.”

“And you don’t agree?” We’d never really talked about it before. We ladies were quiet, after the death of the duke and the revelation of Alanna’s true sex. I supposed that we didn’t because we worried that others would not agree with our stances.

“Of course not,” she replied. “Do you?”

I shook my head.

“He does, though. He’s not worth getting tangled up with.”

“I’m not thinking of entangling myself,” I stated calmly. Goddess, but he had lovely brown eyes, though. “He’s not my type.”

“I didn’t think you were the sort to have a type,” she replied tartly. “Mithros knows you don’t give any man the idea that he might be right for you.”

I was never as free and easy with affection as Gwynnen was, or even Vivenne. They’d shared kisses with knights in poorly-lit libraries, and had been courted by several suitors at one time. It was hard for me to be comfortable with such affairs. “Have you ensnared him already?” I asked, realization dawning on me.

She laughed. “He doesn’t like to play the way I do.”

Gwynnen was made for flirtations like the prince’s or his cousin’s. After seeing poor Roxanne’s tears and tormented poetry upon the realization that Gareth the Younger wasn’t genuinely interested in her, I decided that their approach wasn’t the right one for me, either. “He rejected your attentions?”

“He didn’t notice them.” Her expression was dryly amused, so I was at least reassured that she wasn’t hurt by his inattention. Which made me wonder even more about her assessment of his personality. Was he really so foul?

Gwynnen was soon swept into a dance with the prince, full of smiles and flirtatious laughter that I could never manage. I circled the room, staying clear of the dancers; it would shock my mother, who took great pains to be certain I knew every modern dance, to know that I didn’t care much for dancing. I wasn’t like Gwynnen, who loved nothing more than spinning around with everyone’s eyes on her. I didn’t care for the wicked smiles Lady Delia tossed to men before hiding behind her fan. Perhaps I took courtship far too seriously for the Corus nobility, but I much preferred dinners to dances, where conversation was key.

I had almost reached my goal – the beveled glass doors that led to the veranda – when my name, uttered in a cool and crisp voice, stopped me in mid-step. I turned to see Sir Wyldon approaching me.

“Would you care to dance, my lady?” he asked, his face somehow kind despite its severe nature.

III.

It was strange, after years at court not permitting men to stroll through gardens with me, to find myself perched on the cool, stone bench of the queen’s dimly lit winter honeysuckle garden with Sir Wyldon, trying not to recognize the other nobles who had stolen away for romantic escapades.

“I haven’t seen you much at court this past fortnight since my return from border patrol,” he said, his voice pitched low.

“I was in Elden until yesterday,” I told him. “I dislike leaving Corus during the Season, but my father has been ill.” The breeze caused me to shiver. April balls were the worst, because the ballroom was always far too hot and stifling for comfort, but the gardens offered too much relief. He pulled off his own formal overcoat without so much as a comment, placing it around my shoulders.

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“And now you will be.”

“I’ve suffered far worse.”

“I assure you,” I said, my voice significantly cooler. “I have, too.”

His face, illuminated by the light streaming from palace windows, was thoughtful as he studied me. “I’m afraid I’m rusty when it comes to court frivolities – especially amusing discussion. I’ve been away from Corus far too long.”

“And where have you been?” I asked, curious. His name was not completely unfamiliar to me, but I had spent my last two years with the court’s elite young knights rather than the diligent men who kept the borders safe and saw skirmishes on a regular basis. This man was recognized during the Tusaine war, if my most vague memory served me well.

“Tusaine,” he answered, perhaps a little too brusquely for polite conversation. “There was much to do in the aftermath of war.”

“The war ended three years ago.”

“For you it did. There were prisoners of war to be exchanged, treaties to agree upon. The delegation was in Tusaine for well over six months, and I was with them.”

“And after that?” I prodded.

“I had to take care of things in Cavall. See my sister happily married to a man I respect.” The memory of her happiness seemed to bring a smile to his face. “And then there were a series of border patrols.”

“You’ve likely seen more of the realm than I ever will,” I mused.

He nodded curtly. “I love the land, and I’m eager to serve it again.”

There was something utterly fascinating in his expression, his determination. I had the feeling that I was speaking to man who was unstoppable, and even more interestingly, knew he was a force with which to be reckoned. I flushed upon realization that I was staring at him.

“It’s uncommon for me to have the opportunity to speak plainly and openly with a lady,” he admitted. “You don’t play the coquetry games of Lady Delia or Lady Gwynnen.”

“They’re the flirtiest women of court, sir. You couldn’t pick two worse candidates for serious conversation.” It wasn’t entirely true. Gwynnen had plenty of deep thoughts, but she kept them in the ladies’ quarters unless there was something to debate hotly with Sir Raoul’s squire. Lady Delia, well… she wasn’t prone to conversation at all these days. She still flirted, certainly, but not the way she used to. I wondered, briefly, if she had harbored feelings for Squire Alan. Everything in her nature changed after the night of that revelation, and it reminded me of all the attention she had paid him – her – until that evening.

IV.

“How long has it been since you were knighted?” I asked, in search of a new subject when we took our next promenade together, two weeks after our first. I had been correct in my initial suspicion that this man would not care for the discussions of music or poetry that I usually engaged in. It was amazing to me, in fact, that we had been speaking to one another so long without my knowing his age.

“Seven years,” he said. That put him at twenty-five, though he carried that calm certainty of someone even older. He was only six years my senior. My mother would refer to that as a “suitable age difference” for a potential husband. My mother, however, never understood my reluctance regarding courting.

“You don’t seem so young,” I admitted. “You’re very reserved, and I usually don’t see that among the newer knights. They’re all bluster and arrogance.”

“A little bit of arrogance is necessary in a knight,” Wyldon said, a wry smile crossing his face.

I liked his mouth, and wondered what it would be like to steal kisses in a garden, after all.

“When you’re in a battle, facing a possible death at any moment, you must believe that you’re unstoppable,” he continued.

“Then why aren’t you as arrogant as the others?” I asked.

“I assure you, I am.” A degree of smugness crept into his voice, and I didn’t find it as distasteful as I would from many of the other knights. He didn’t have Sir Raoul’s cocky grin, and he didn’t have Sir Gary’s ridiculous moustache to smooth.

“What is your specialty as a knight?” I asked, leading him down a path toward the rose gardens. There would be no roses, but that meant there would be no other people strolling about, either.

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Sir Alexander of Tirragen is an unmatched swordsman. Duke Gareth the Elder is known for his reason. What do you think you’ll be remembered for?”

He blinked several times, frowning. “I’m not sure I’ll be remembered at all,” he said finally. “I’m well-rounded as a fighter, and very good with a lance. But…” he drifted off, uncomfortably.

“Sir Raoul is very good at tilting, too,” I said. “I had the chance to witness him training his squire. I felt sorry for the lad.”

“He’s quite proficient.”

“Squire – well, Sir Sacherell – seemed good enough. He’s always been in the shadow of greatness, though, with a knight-master like Raoul and a friend like Sir Alanna.” I watched him from the corner of my eye.

“Sir Alanna,” he replied bitterly, shaking his head. “I’ll never become accustomed to that.”

It was strange, this difference between men and women. My mother and governess had explained that women’s political opinions were no less important than a man’s, but that it was imprudent to air them before marriage. I found it hard to believe that supporting a female knight could make a man love my dowry any less, but the old guard of noblewomen insisted that if it did not ruin me, it could easily ruin my circle of friends. Men assumed that we befriended only like-minded people, even if they didn’t always do that. The thought of Vivenne and her year-old slippers, though, was enough to keep me from testing my mother’s fears.

“Do you know her?” I asked hesitantly.

“I haven’t had the pleasure. You?”

V.

“I met her first as the very impressive Squire Alan,” I said to him one evening, when other noble men and women lounged about with wine glasses, listening to the crystalline sounds of a glass harmonica.

“Protected by the prince.” He winced, but I could not tell if it was a response to our conversation or the higher pitches reverberating off the arched, stone ceiling.

“Protected by her skill, as well.” I didn’t care if people insisted that she used her Gift to bewitch the world – I could see, during that duel with the Duke of Conté, that she was as capable of fighting as any man in the room. More capable, in fact. And perhaps it was a woman’s intuition that made it possible for her to see through the duke.

“Let us agree to disagree,” he said, his words cool and crisp. I could nearly feel chills emanating from him. Everything about him was different from the almost warm and cordial man I’d known these past months.

“I could agree with you,” I said airily, rising to my feet, “but then we both would be wrong.”

“Lady Cythera,” he began haltingly, but I held up one hand to stop him altogether.

“No. I understand where you might come from, after having worked so hard to earn your shield within the life you know. But I cannot help but feel impressed and awed that Sir Alanna carved out the life she wanted in a world that did not want her. And I think the realm owes her a great deal, now that she has saved the queen’s life.” I swallowed thickly. I liked this man, after all. Sitting with him, learning little things about the way his mind worked, had been the highlight of the Season. Unlike any other knight I knew, I found myself wanting to see more of him. He was the first man at court who I’d ever thought seriously of courtship and romance.

He stared back at me, as if I were a creature completely unknown to him. He did not agree, and I understood that he never would.

I handed my wine glass to a squire and walked to the room’s exit, and he – I am surprised to say – followed me into the corridor. “I have one request of you, sir,” I said, turning to face him when we were finally away from the crowd.

“What would that be?” His voice was low and unsure.

“Please don’t assume that everyone I’m acquainted with shares my views. We women do not group by our political ideals, the way men do. We’re in a battle of survival at court, trying to show off our families and ourselves to our best, clawing our ways to the top of a social ladder. It’s not about which of the king’s policies we approve of, who we think should be made a minister.”

“And?”

“There are women associated with me who should still be considered for courtship. Some who might share your views, or be willing to happily not butt heads with you.” I looked up into his dark eyes, taking one last second to admire the way the light reflected in the brown of his irises. I wondered if it was worth sticking to my own convictions. All of Elden would be thrilled at a match with Cavall. He was from the Book of Gold, while we were a Silver family. And I wondered if I would ever regret pushing him away so decisively. “Find a girl more to your suiting, Sir Wyldon. There are plenty of young noble women who would have so much more in common with you. Lady Vivenne was commenting on your horse today,” I added, crossing my fingers behind my back.

“Lady Vivenne?” His eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I don’t recall having met her.”

VI.

“Her family’s fief is near yours; she’s a lover of horses, and might suit you well,” I repeated, at the next banquet. We were seated together by the queen’s observant entertainment coordinator. His job, it seemed, was to see which women flirted with which men, and support whichever of those ties would best benefit the Conté interests.

Wyldon nodded, a seemingly innocuous gesture, but in reality he was trying to confirm which lady in the ballroom I was speaking of. He had inferred the right woman. Vivenne sat further down the table, toward the king, as her fief’s status dictated. She looked as lovely as ever, and Wyldon could hardly recognize that her gold gown was refurbished from last year’s style. Only a woman raised at court would see the subtle differences between her fabric and mine.

It had been strange the night before, accepting our rejection of one another and talking softly about an interest we shared – my dear friend’s equine abilities. Perhaps I would not fall in love with this dashing man, after all. Perhaps she would not, either, but love was less important to her than it was to me. We are victims of our circumstances, after all. Maybe Vivenne shared some of his views, or would at least be more capable of accepting them.

“She’s lovely,” he replied. His voice was reserved, and I could almost hear the unspoken “but not as lovely as you are.” It made me turn my head away from him momentarily, whether in shame or shyness, I was not sure.

“She is well-educated and sensible,” I added, not mentioning the various suitors or the stolen kisses I knew too much about. “And her family is of the Book of Gold.”

That seemed to pique his interest, and my heart sank at the notion. He bred horses, though. Keeping his bloodline pure meant as much to him as elevating my children’s meant to my mother. I didn’t like that I was so saddened by this realization. I had been the one to refuse him, in the subtle languages of palace courting. He had not offered marriage, certainly, but he wouldn’t have been spending such time with me if it weren’t his goal.

I was lost in my thoughts of such a wistful nature when I noticed him gazing at me, concern etched in his dark eyes. “What troubles you, Cythera?”

Was it a mark of friendship, his not using my title? Or was it simply that we were beyond the formality, despite the lack of forbidden kisses or embraces? I wondered if a part of him wanted to love me.

“She thinks you are cold,” I said, my lips numb with the realization that maybe I already loved him. I wanted to retract every suggestion that he court my friend – how would I spend time with her if they married, knowing that she shared her bed with the only man with whom I would have ever considered doing such a thing?

“I see,” he said. His voice and expression, for the first time I could recall, were what Gwynnen would have certainly described as smoldering. He wasn’t the frosty man I had been warned away from. He didn’t emanate chill, as he had during our discussion of Sir Alanna.

Goddess, but it was unfair to be so attracted to a man who did not see the world in the same light I did.

“We’ll just have to change that opinion,” he said, determined, as the meal came to an end. I remained in my seat when he excused himself, and watched him cross the room to intercept Vivenne before she reached the door to the ballroom.

“A copper for your thoughts?” Gareth the Younger stood beside my chair, his dark eyes – such a different brown from Wyldon’s – fixed on me. He carried none of the solemnity, nor any of the opinions, of the only man I’d allowed to court me.

“My thoughts are worth far more than a copper,” I replied heavily.

“Every person’s are,” he answered, without the lofty arrogance I had often associated with him. I took his offered hand and allowed him to help me to my feet.


End file.
